NERDMUSCLE 

By Chip Masterson 

Shawn was the ultimate nerd. We used to pick on him all the time. Nothing 
serious; just knocking all those books out of his hand and playing catch with 
his dork glasses. But when we broke the glasses once (oops) we pitched in and 
paid for new ones, though that didn't stop him crying like a baby. But when we 
got in high school we went our way and he went his and we only ever saw him 
hanging out with the other geeks. 

Well, in Chemistry my senior year I had him as my lab partner. He wouldn't look 
me in the eye and seemed to flinch every time I moved suddenly. At first it 
bugged the apeshit out of me but I started to feel sorry for him, the way you 
feel about a dog in a yard with too many Chevies as lawn ornaments. And he 
always dressed as SuperDork, with his shirt buttoned up high and this eternal 
navy blue nylon windbreaker. He looked like he was scrawny going on fat, the way 
his clothes sort of ballooned around him. So I tried to be calm and nice to him 
and he slowly started to warm up. 

Now, I'm hoping for a football scholarship so I really needed his help in 
Chemistry. The teach lost me somewhere between bases and altoids, and that was 
on the first day. So I've been extra nice coming up to the midterm. Even offered 
to come to his Dorkville house to study. 

His parents were the Ur-nerds, both of them. Nice and boring as leftover lemon 
Jell-O. His fatassed mom showed me upstairs to his room. I was totally not 
prepared for what I found there. 

Shawn had assembled, built and rebuilt a huge computer complex in his room, with 
old monitors and throw-away stuff he'd modified into this octopus-like bank of 
techno-wizardry. But it wasn't just the technical stuff: it was how fast he was 
typing that blew me away. His fingers were a blur over the keys and he never hit 
the backspace key. The clicking was just a solid pitch and the screen filled up 
with all sorts of numbers and letters and symbols and shit, like he was 
programming it in some super-fast way. Every now and again the computer would 
beep angrily and he'd stop and wait for the super-charged machine to catch up to 
him, then he'd start pounding stuff into them all over again. When he stopped, 
he stretched his spidery-long fingers and all the joints cracked.

 "Dude, how fast can you type? That's amazing."

 He looked kind of shy. "I don't know," he said. "I never figured it out. I've 
just got this project I'm working on for comp sci and want to get it done. It's 
a secret though. I spend a lot of time in here." 

I looked around at all the equipment, and saw something else that puzzled me. In 
the trash can were bent nails, ripped-up tennis balls and tons of playing cards 
torn in half. "You tear cards up when you're frustrated?" I asked. 
"A couple packs at a time, yeah." 

That would explain why the cards were still in the boxes. 

"Dude ... what did you say?" 
He looked a little proud, kind of. "I spend so much time typing that my arms 
cramp up and I don't want carpel tunnel syndrome, so I take breaks and work out 
the tension. At first I wasn't very strong but now I can tear three packs in 
half in about 10 seconds. That's three packs stacked together" He smiled at the 
way my jaw dropped open. "Got any change?" 

I fished in my pocket, pulled out a quarter and flipped it to him. He put his 
thumbs beneath it and pulled down with his index fingers and bent it in half! I 
felt hot and it was hard to breath. How could he be doing this shit? 

"No way, dude. No way can you be this strong. I've been working out since I was 
twelve and I can't do that."

 "It's your quarter," he said. He smiled at me again, took the bent-over quarter 
in his hands and bent it double again and handed it back to me. "Here you go: a 
quarter quarter." Then he snorted and gave out a braying geek laugh. I dodged 
the spit and noticed how ropy and thick his neck was.

 I marveled at the lump of metal in my hand: I tried to open it back up but 
couldn't bend it at all. His strength was incredible! "Shawn, do you work out 
more than just your grip, man?" 

Shawn was suddenly pleased with all the attention I was giving him. He blushed 
bright red. "I do isometrics. Just to loosen myself up." He put his hands 
together and did a kind of side-chest flex. I felt his bicep through his jacket 
and jerked my fingers away. It was like marble under all that slick, sliding 
nylon. 

"Dude, you're hard as a rock! That's gotta be like sixteen inches there. And you 
were about eleven inches sophomore year in gym class, I remember. You didn't put 
five inches on your arms just doing isometrics." I felt dizzy. 

He nodded. "Believe it or not, I don't care. You want to study?" 

"No," I said. "I need to comprehend this. If you could do that, then you must be 
some sort of genetic fre-" I caught myself from using "that word" and he relaxed 
when I said "genetic marvel. If you lifted weights, you'd probably grow like a 
house." He blushed again. "I'm kind of a klutz. I'd probably hurt myself and 
others." I had to see what was going on. "Look, take off your shirt. I've got to 
see what you've developed." He looked funny. "I'm not gay, nerdly. I just can't 
believe it." Well, I am gay, but none of you better say anything about it. 
Nobody knows and nobody will know, got it? 

He still looked iffy but he peeled his jacket off and then I could tell that 
what I thought was fat ... wasn't. Even through his oversized shirt I could see 
a thick chest and delts, a thicker back and beefy arms. He acted like that was 
it. "Come on, man. I gotta know your secret. I've been slaving in the gym. I 
gotta see what you've done with yourself." I was on the verge of really begging 
him when he started unbuttoning his shirt. 
I wasn't prepared for how deep the split was between his pecs. The tops even 
bounced and twitched as he worked the buttons down, and the split became a 
gully, then a cavern between the mounds of muscle. More buttons revealed rows of 
perfect, domed abs like silver ingots with the skin sucked up practically 
underneath them. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and the striations 
rippled around the dense crown of muscle. The shirt sleeves got caught on his 
triceps and he couldn't pull it off so I went around to help. His back was like 
nothing I'd ever seen, muscles piled on muscles, dimpling in and out of each 
other. I pulled it down off his horseshoes and pipe-thick biceps, wanting 
desperately to tongue the grooves and veins that defined those arms as a man's 
arms, and all other men were judged thereby. As he undid the wrist buttons his 
pecs pitched and fought each other like two sumo wrestlers. I so longed to put 
my nose between them, feel the pressure and smell his musk but then I saw his 
nerdling zit-covered face and Agent Scully Autopsy glasses and reminded myself 
where I was. At last he had the shirt off and he expanded himself with a few 
deep breaths. The veins were like twine tying together an side of beef. "Show 
me," I said. 

He looked embarrassed again, but started doing isometrics and his muscles jumped 
to the occasion. Bulging and writhing, he made them bigger and bigger with each 
flex. I felt drool fall out of my mouth but he was only watching himself. My 
head burned with envy, jealousy that this nerd should have so much muscle from 
just doing bullshit exercises while I sweated and trembled at my 275 lb bench 
press and 315 pound squat. I was nowhere near as muscular, as balanced and as 
lean as this freak. I had to put him in his place, restore the natural order of 
things. He was the braniac, I was the stud. No matter how bloated his muscles 
had gotten, they couldn't be as strong as mine. Mine were built with hard 
grunting labor year after year. They weren't just trophy muscles; they were real 
man muscles on my seventeen year old man's body. "Let's arm wrestle," I said. 

He looked down at the carpet. "I really think we ought to study now. The test's 
in two days. And you haven't done any of the reading." 

"Fuck that," I saw, watching him blush dark purple at the word, then smile and 
giggle. He cleared off a little space on a table and put up his arm. 

I admit I was a little intimidated by its sheer size. Although my guns were 
easily an inch bigger, his were more cut, fuller and more symmetrical, with 
better peaks. The belly stretched all the way to the elbow. More beautiful, in a 
word. His bodyfat was way lower than mine but that just means I have greater 
power. I sat down and grabbed his hand. 

I'd forgotten about the quarter. 

I winced as he gripped me hard and the struggle began. Struggle for me: he just 
waited a few seconds until my arm tremored, unable to move his. His bicep leapt 
up to a full peak with a thick vein running right over the top. My own thicker, 
less elegant arm bulged but I felt something give in my elbow; then he firmly 
pulled my hand down. I had to relax completely to avoid pulling my brachialis 
tendon. I couldn't believe it: he beat me so easily and he wasn't even sweating. 
And he still looked embarrassed behind his giant glasses. 

Almost resentfully, he asked "Can we study now?" 

But I couldn't stand up. I had a woody the size of a Captain Hook's pegleg. "Not 
yet. I want to see just how strong you really are. Put your hand back up." 

Dutifully, like it was the worst imposition, he put his arm back up. His bicep 
was still pumped and sat on his arm like a plump plucked chicken. This time took 
my other arm and placed my hand behind his hand. "Now this is what he call 
Indian arm wrestling." I made that up. "I thought that was something else." 

"Naw, that's the geek way. This way, I try to push your hand forward, and you 
try to push BACKWARD against my hand." This way I had all the leverage. "One two 
three GO!" 

Again his peak popped up and seemed to grow harder. Our flat hands strained 
against each other. I thought I could easily push his arm down. I was wrong.

 I had to regulate my breathing. He held me in place with the back of his hand. 
I gripped around his palm but it did me no good. I put my lats into it and 
grabbed the table leg underneath, trying to cheat by pulling my whole body 
together. But I still couldn't budge his arm, it was like iron. The veins in his 
arms started to beat with his pulse. He was moving his arm backward! I drew 
sharp gasping breaths and held them. I flexed again and again with bursts of 
power, pulling openly with my other arm but it didn't phase him. He started to 
twist, since his arm can't rotate that way very far; but the shifting should 
have made him even weaker. Instead his twists made him stronger. I braced my 
legs and launched an all-out full-body assault against his monster bicep. My 
muscles strained and bulged but he simply twisted a little more and pressed my 
arm further backward. His delts split, then split again as they powered my big 
football bicep down against the table: and held me there. I couldn't get up, and 
I couldn't pull my arm loose. And this was pure delt strength! 

"Shawn, stop" I wheezed. "Let me up. I think you're hurting me." 

"I'm not letting you up until you promise I can put my shirt on and we can 
study." As if he needed my permission for anything! He still didn't get it. I 
felt come begin to spurt down my leg. I promised. I had to get to the bathroom. 
I cleaned myself up with some kleenex and flushed it; thank god my come is thick 
and sticky, it didn't stain my jeans too much and cleaned up easy. I heard a 
knock at the door. I took some deep breaths and came out. 

"I brought some Cokes," he said. He had three. He was still shirtless. I 
laughed, kind of nervously. "Three, huh? Is that your muscle building formula?" 
"No," he said, "I thought I'd show you one last thing that I do. To build up my 
chest muscles."

 He took the unopened can and stepped into the shower. "You have stand close so 
I can close the curtain. I don't want to make too much of a mess, Mom gets mad." 
So stuck my head in and looked down over his shoulder, his bunched trap rising 
up to my jaw. I could feel the heat off his mostly smooth skin: he held the Coke 
can before his abdomen in both hands. 

His hands started to tremble and his pecs ballooned out. His arm veins burst out 
across the skin. His knuckles turned white. He took a deep breath and I 
remembered to breath too: and he grunted once, then twice, then BOOOM! The 
entire top of the can blew off and hit the tile on the other side and coke shot 
out in a tight stream, spraying the walls and curtain. Some splashed back at me 
and my aching cock hardened again as he started laughing with joy. I laughed 
too, looking at the crushed aluminum. He reached over to get the top for me, his 
lats falling out on either side, and he showed me me the blown-out metal plate, 
the crimping on the sides spread apart. All from the pressure of his pecs and 
arms! 

"Whoa, dude, that takes like six hundred pounds of pressure! You rock, dude!" I 
tried to high- five him but he messed it up. He wiped the Coke off his body with 
a wash cloth and I got another great view of his muscles working like a team of 
race horses to do the simplest task. His biceps jumping and bulging made me 
dizzy so I grabbed another towel and started sponging down the shower, to hide 
my flushed face and groaning groin. When I turned around, he was gone; he 
returned with his shirt almost buttoned. "Now we HAVE to study." He smiled like 
a kid. I was his friend now, and we were all over chemistry. But I didn't 
remember a damn thing of what he taught me. 

*** "Troy, you are so whack," said D. "Just because you got pussy-strength don't 
mean some geek can take us. Look at these guns." D had the biggest guns in the 
school; he said they were twenty inches but I measured them and they were really 
just eighteen and a quarter but he swore me to silence. They were impressive 
mountains of meat nonetheless, especially on a seventeen year old. Easily bigger 
than Shawn's muscles. I was always glad to ogle them. 

"I'm tellin' ya, Shawn is freaky strong." "He got the freak part right." They 
dapped and laughed and I tried to quiet them down. I'd invited Shawn to join us. 
"Sssh, here he comes. Be chill." 

Shawn walked up, not looking at anyone. His giant glasses were sliding off his 
nose but both hands were full of books and he looked up at the ceiling of the 
gym and tried to shake them back up on his nose, like a seal. The guys 
suppressed a laugh and I tried to make Shawn comfortable. 

"Look, Shawn, I know you don't like to show off but these guys don't believe how 
brutally strong you are. I was hoping you'd show them." 

"You just want another excuse to tease me," he said sullenly. He hadn't put down 
his books. 

"No, no, honest. It's simple: I want you to do a tug-of-war with the four of us. 
You on one side, we're on the other." 

"That doesn't seem fair," he said. 

I thought I knew what he meant: that I wanted vengeance. I was so wrapped up in 
myself I couldn't see any other side. "But okay, if it'll make you happy. I'm 
not taking off my clothes this time though." 

I blushed and D raised his eyebrow and made a fruity gesture with his pinky. I 
shoved my fist into his shoulder and got the rope. It was a black nylon rope 
with orange diamonds woven into it, about three-quarters of an inch thick. There 
was a line in the cement that we used for the center, and Shawn put down his 
books and went to one side, where I tossed him the rope. He didn't wrap it 
around his arms or nothing, just stood there like an old-time boxer, gripping 
the rope. 

This would be cake. 

The four of us positioned ourselves with D as the anchor. He took up the slack 
in the rope by wrapping it around his waist and tying it off. And we prepared, 
as we'd practice, to pull on the count of four and yank Shawn onto his face. 
"One ... two ... three ... FOUR" and we YANKED. 

The force knocked me off my feet and I slid down onto my ass. Shawn hadn't 
moved, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the rope. I got up and 
shouted again. 

"One ... two ... three ... HEAVE!" We pulled again but again, nothing happened. 
Now the guys believed there was a trick and started arguing but Shawn just stood 
there. Holding the rope out in front of him. 

We started pulling any way we could. D was grunting rhythmically and pulling 
with all his might to dislodge Shawn but he just stood there, one leg bracing 
the other, and pulled back against us. Resisting our combined force and weight 
of over seven hundred pounds of football-massacring meat. I could see his arms 
swelling as the light glistened off the changing shape of the nylon jacket's 
sleeves: his peaks were bulging out and starting to stretch the fabric. 

He gritted his teeth and veins rose up on his neck. He gave a tug and we jerked 
forward! "GO! GO! GO!" D screamed with an edge of desperation in his voice. We 
all pulled crazily, stomping our feet throwing our bodies backward with the rope 
but Shawn tugged AGAIN and our feet skidded forward on the concrete. "This can't 
be happening, man!" D whined. Then he began chanting "GO GO GO" again, louder 
and higher. The rope twisted taut between us. Shawn pulled again and held us 
with one hand while he changed his grip. We all saw it and we all pulled in 
unison and Shawn leaned forward a bit - and stopped up on his toes. Without 
putting his hand back on the rope he let himself fall back onto his feet and 
dragged us toward him ONE-HANDED!" 

Then he ... he SMILED and stuck his other hand into the air! D sounded like he 
was crying. I looked back and his face was screwed up with rage and bright red. 
"He can't do this to us, man, we're JOCKS!" he shouted. But every time his back 
and arms and legs pulled they met the shocking resistance of Shawn's grinning 
nerd muscle. He started walking backward while holding the rope in his one hand. 
Our feet tried for purchase on the concrete but we stumbled and skidded along, 
incapable of resisting his power. He walked backward until I was almost across 
the concrete line, then fed us a little line so we all fell on our asses. Then 
laughing he pulled us all across the line on out butts hand over hand until we 
were stopped at his feet and looking up at him. Like he was a god or something. 

His face was sweaty from the strain and he took his glasses off and wiped them. 
His brylcreamed hair had come loose and fell over his face a bit and I realized 
suddenly with a pang: he was handsome. More handsome than me. If he didn't 
present himself like a geek, he could have all the pussy he could ever want. Or 
man-pussy, if that's what he wanted. I hoped it was and then hated myself for 
thinking it. He'd just defeated me! How could I want him? I was a conqueror. 
FUCK! I thought I'd cry but I choked it down. We scrambled to our feet and I 
noticed the nylon was really stretched out around his bicep. The sweat stained 
his shirt and he said smiled at us: not the hunter's smile of earlier but a 
friendly smile. "That was fun. We should do it again but like I said, four on 
one isn't fair. See ya." He picked up his books and walked away. I coiled up the 
rope and saw where his fingers had punished it, it had flattened. I tried to 
flatted the rope in MY fingers and couldn't. I hated him. I had to get him. 
Somehow. 

*** 

This time the whole football team was on our backs about having been utterly 
demolished by Shawn, aka NerdMuscle. Nobody would believe me but D carried a lot 
of weight so they decided that whatever sort of technique or oriental skills he 
might have picked up on the internet, it couldn't be a match for the sheer brawn 
of the entire Hamilton High football team. We got twenty-two of the biggest, 
strongest guys in the school. Some of them, like D, are better built than the 
coaches; some of them (I won't name names) are also on the juice. They got 
specially juiced up for the confrontation. 

Shawn seemed cool with it so we got a real thick mooring-cable rope and met him 
on the football practice field, over the fifty yard line. He'd stand at his 
thirty, I'd stand on our thirty and the team would line behind me. Whoever 
pulled the other side over twenty yards of field would be the winner. We knew 
we'd reel him in like a trout. "It's all skins," I said, hoping to intimidate 
him. We all stripped off our jerseys and stood there, flexing our pecs in the 
sun. He glared at me and stripped off his jacket and shirt. A whisper went 
through the crowd as they saw his sculpted physique. D walked over to him to 
shake hands. "Hey guy, look, no hard feeling--" he began but his voice faltered 
as he got closer and saw the veins snaking over the lumps of Shawn's forearms. 
He stuck out his hand and said, "You've got a killer bod, man. Good luck." They 
shook and stood there for a minute, testing each other's grip. Each matched the 
other in building pressure until Shawn smiled into the sun and gave a sharp 
squeeze, his forearm knotting and rolling. We thought we heard D breathe in 
quick as his jaw dropped. He relaxed his hand as a sign for truce before the 
more-than-human muscle in Shawn's hand caused irreparable damage. 

And he waited until he tied himself off as the anchor again, behind us all, 
before he shook out that hand. Again, Shawn just stood there, light glistening 
off his paper-white skin which only threw the shadows cast by his ridges and 
acres of muscle into deeper relief. Again, I counted to four, and we PULLED with 
a warrior's cry. However strong Shawn may be, he wasn't prepared for the full 
might of twenty-two big hormone-crazed athletes. Nearly two tons of men on one 
end of the rope, and Shawn's lanky, amazing body on the other: we pulled him 
forward onto his knees and dragged him five yards before he could skitter his 
feet back under him, and another five yards before he could dig them in. We were 
half way home: trouble is, we pissed him off. Bad idea. Shawn dug his feet into 
the ground and we all heard a rip as his calves tore the seams apart on his 
Sears jeans. His thighs swelled and more seams tore apart. The rope halted 
suddenly, jarring teeth and pulling muscles. Guys shouted and cried out as their 
straining muscles suddenly cramped or tore, or they bit their tongues. 

And Shawn's legs were buried to the ankle. He grunted and threw his sliding 
glasses off. His dark hair fell forward and again I was struck by how Tarzan-
like his face looked, how handsome ... and determined. With his arms fully 
extended, his triceps shot outward like extensions of the thick mooring line, 
their striations as regular as the twisted strands of rope. His pecs bunched up 
between his trembling biceps and the sweat that rolled down his throbbing neck 
into the split couldn't penetrate it, so tightly squeezed together were those 
pecs. The sweat, with nowhere to go, built up along the ledge of his collarbone 
and cascaded in sheets over the rippling muscle, following the cuts to his arms 
and then flowing downward from there. Then Shawn began to pull back. The rope 
twisted around and around between the two sides as the stalemate brought immense 
forces to bear on it. 

All we could hear was the creaking of the rope as it slowly spun one way, then 
the other, struggling to hold together or even to stretch somehow; and the 
breathing of twenty-three men locked in mortal combat. The tension radiated into 
the air: something had to give. It wasn't going to be Shawn. He wrapped the rope 
around his wrist and leaned back until he practically lay on the ground. Forty-
four arms struggled against his two: and no one moved. Forty-four arrogant 
school-ruling arms pumped and strained and reddened: and they moved Shawn's 
toward them perhaps a half inch. Maybe more. Shawn couldn't pull his feet out of 
the ground. In fact, he seemed to have sunk deeper, pushing his cheap torn jeans 
higher up his legs. 

He began to draw his hands toward his chest. And he was doing it, too. His hand 
got closer and his pecs domed outward. Guys behind me grunted and felt the rope 
slipping in their hand. So they wrapped the rope around their wrists and leaned 
back against the drag: and legs began to tremble, knee ligaments to sing. I 
heard wheezing behind me and somebody let out an agonized cry of rage as his 
labor became unbearable. Using the amazing speed which powered his typing, Shawn 
shot one hand out while keeping the line taut with the other. 

We gained maybe another half inch each time, but lost ten times that when he 
pulled more rope onto his side of the field. His arms engorged with pounding 
blood, the peaks of his biceps erect with power. His abs sank in, meshed and 
flexed as they funneled strength from his legs and trunk into his spreading 
back, pecs and arms. And he drew his hand toward him again, letting out rope 
slack with relief behind him. A dozen guys stomped their feet in shame and fury, 
but each stomp lost ground; they felt their knees buckle against the awesome 
might of Shawn's biceps. My cock arched painfully against my cup as I realized 
Shawn was outmuscling nearly two dozen men with just his upper body power! 

My heart raced and then I saw our doom: he pulled one foot out, kicking clods of 
dirt into the air, and placed it behind him. He arched his back and sought to 
straighten that leg: and with a hard thrust and a roar of triumph he yanked us 
forward a foot. Then his arms really began to work and we lost another foot as 
he stepped back and again inexorably drew his hands toward his jagged pecs, 
muscles that interlocked like the jaws of death. Feet dug into the earth, and 
dug trenches as Shawn's building power outmanned the combined strength of the 
entire football squad. We were losing now, losing for real. Guys began shouting 
"No! No! No!" and pulled like galley slaves in rhythm with their vocal denial of 
an incomprehensible reality. But the more they grunted and shouted and stressed 
their lats and arms and legs, the more Shawn matched them all muscle for muscle: 
matched and outmatched them. Every move we made to stop the juggernaut of 
NerdMuscle was checked by Him. His fingers digging into the taut rope fibers 
like talons and the rope piling up behind him was frayed and pulled into loose 
strands by his uncanny finger strength. 


And I saw he was grinning, grinning wide and proud. He was now back at his own 
thirty yard line; and we'd lost twelve yards of our own. Now HE was halfway 
home, and the rope that slid slowly through my hands was smeared with blood from 
burst blisters. But now Shawn was holding his position and determined to reduce 
our forces with arm and back strength alone. The vein crossing that one huge 
bicep seemed almost ready to burst the skin, so hard was the bulging muscle 
beneath it. His lats stood so far out it doubled his body width. He began 
dragging us toward him hand over hand with a steady, slightly jerky rhythm, each 
arm making three or four yanks that savaged our hands and made ten men stumble, 
then another six. D, the anchor, had turned around and was trying to walk away 
from Nerd Muscle but his feet sunk into the earth and he couldn't stop our 
deadly progress toward the source of all strength, as if we were a swarm of 
mighty planet-smashing asteroids being sucked helplessly into the sun. One, two, 
three four: his arm bent at his side, bicep crowding out against his forearm, 
and again: one, two three. 

Guys were crying, screaming and raging but nothing we could do could stop him. 
Foot by foot and yard by yard we neared the fifty yard line, and he picked up 
the pace, buckling our muscle as guys' legs collapsed and they fell to the 
ground. Some actually let go, unable to grip any longer and the rest of us piled 
over them, unable to resist Shawn's muscle force. When I crossed the fifty I 
thought he'd stop but he wasn't going to until his nemesis, D, could see that 
central yard line. More guys fell off the line, grabbing cramped and torn and 
strained muscles and joints. Shawn just reeled us in like toddlers until D 
looked down and saw his defeat: a pit of rutted mud on the edges of which 
radiated out the fifty yard line. 

Shawn held the rope tight until everyone dropped off but D, who still leaned 
into the pull. Then he let go and D fell face-first into the torn earth. And 
Shawn laughed and shook out his massively leonine muscles. I gazed around at the 
guys limping or clutching their injuries, some crying in pain and humiliation, 
and I had the sinking feeling that football season was over, and it was all my 
fault. The coach would kill me (mostly because he clearly couldn't TOUCH Him). 
But the feeling of that power, that awe-inspiring, overwhelming, hero-
worshipping power: it was the greatest rush I'd ever felt. To see this computer 
geek overcome all our weight and strength, to feel the irresistable power of his 
body exerting itself in the sun.... my cock spurted come again down my leg and I 
didn't care. 

My eyes rollwed back as I lay on the ground, looking up at him, flexing and 
stretching in the sun. Like a fucking god. I staggered to my feet and walked up 
to Shawn. His chest heaved up and down but he was already catching his breath. 

"Well, I guess you guys won't be calling me a nerd anymore," he said. "Look," I 
said, still winded, "you're still ... a classic ... computer ... geek." I tried 
to laugh but it hurt my side. He smiled at my wince of pain. "You know, it looks 
like the team's gonna be out of commission for awhile. Pity. Maybe I should 
represent the school this Friday. You could teach me what football's all about. 
I learn quickly." And I had no doubt, no doubt whatsoever, that he'd kick El 
Camino's collective ass.
 THE END
 ChipMasterson@yahoo.com